In/Convenience

I didn’t expect to end my life sat on a toilet.

As I drift in and out of consciousness I’m vaguely aware of Shaking Stevens’ Merry Christmas Everyone playing in the background. What little attention span I have is focussed on the graffiti adorning the stall door. The inevitable declarations of lust and love – KELLY FOR BRETT; ALI + PETE 4EVA 2GETHA – and a number of acclaims for and attacks on the sexual prowess of others  - GREG WILLS HAS A BIG ONE; KELLY IS A SLUT (the same Kelly I wonder) take precedence. There are also adverts for sexual health services (definitely needed around here if the suggested activities in front of me are anything to go by) and a helpline number for those experiencing domestic violence which I find particularly upsetting. I enjoy the scribblings aimed purely to entertain those in for the long haul; my favourite is down near the bottom of the door with an arrow pointing to the gap – BEWARE OF LIMBO DANCERS.

I feel cheated.

At the end of a life aren’t the best bits of it supposed to flash through one’s mind? Somehow all I can focus on is the low level vandalism in front of me. But wait. . . Now I’ve put my mind to it I’m remembering my own loves and losses. Ben was my first; tall, blond and sexy. I didn’t scrawl any declarations on a toilet door but he carved our names on a bench after one particularly heavy petting session. We ran when the park-keeper saw us. Next was Michael; ‘the one’. We were married for 57 years until he died three years ago. Our life together wasn’t perfect, whose is, but he was always fun to be with.  As generous with his love and his time as with his money he often surprised and delighted me so although I’ve never tried limbo dancing there is on my mantelpiece at home a display of trophies that we won together at regional amateur competitions. Ballroom I bet you’re thinking. No, rock and roll was our speciality. Michael even sang along sometimes. (Let Me Be Your) Teddy Bear always made me smile and Love Me Tender brought a tear to my eyes.

There is significant activity outside of my small cubical now. A male paramedic and a fireman both introduce themselves: Bobby and Malc respectively. Strong voices both of them. I’m hoping they have the stereotypical good looks of emergency service personnel, to go with their husky, hunky tones.

The music has changed to the Band Aid Christmas hit, Do They Know It’s Christmas? I’m distressed again.

Someone else is talking now. It’s my daughter struggling through tears. A lovely girl whose blue eyes and twinkly smile remind me of her father every time I see her. Busy as I’ve been with my own memories, and the lives of those represented through the toilet wall writings, I’ve not been concentrating on her or her needs.

‘Paula, darling, I’m ok. Don’t worry. I love you’.

‘Oh, mum, I love you too.’

‘Plenty of time for that later, girls’, one of the men, Malc I think, says. ‘Let’s get you out first, Clare’.

There is some fiddling with the lock.

It’s too late.

I know it.

I don’t say anything. I’m sorry to be causing so much trouble. The least I can do is to let them all believe they are being useful.

I feel better now; content even.  As promised there’s been some remembering, some vivid pictures of past adventures and it’s all ending on a good day. Paula and I had a lovely lunch at my favourite Italian restaurant and we spent the next couple of hours shopping for things for the boys; my great grandchildren would you believe. I’m glad they’ll have presents from me to open on Christmas morning.

I’m thinking about the funeral now. Who will give the eulogy? Probably Chris, Paula’s husband, a calm and clever man who tells a great story. My daughter and granddaughters will be too upset but they’ll help with the script. Cathy the youngest, the joker in the family, will make sure that there’s some reference to my final resting place and I’m glad. I’ve attended my fair share of funerals lately and the ones I’ve been most moved by and thought about the longest where those that felt like a real celebration of the life concerned, including reference to the warts as well as the roses in the life of the deceased.

And, despite, or maybe because of, a little loss of dignity, this dying on a toilet has all the makings of a jolly good yarn. After all, it was good enough for Elvis. And here he is; ‘I’ll have a blue Christmas without you . . . ‘